Reverse Psychology
by Natalie River
Summary: Mycroft didn't like to stoop as low as Sherlock in order to get his own way. Taking a certain skull or a certain doctor hostage worked effectively. Sometimes Mycroft has to use reverse psychology on his brother, and it's frighteningly easy. Other's don't mind stooping that low. Some people don't need to use mind tricks. Sherlolly, Johnlock, paternal Lestrade. One-shots. Sort of.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note:_ _A drabble that I thought was quite a plausible situation in the BBC's Sherlock. My own sibling rivalry seems trivial in comparisson to Sherlock and Mycroft's. As much as I love Sherlock I have to say he can be...immature to say the least. _

_Still if I owned Sherlock there might be a bit more sheet action and a little less plot (which means it's probably better that I don't own it). _

* * *

Mycroft Holmes did not like to stoop to his brother's level.

Which was why he refused to hostage take in order to get cases done. No matter how tempting it became.

After all, what _would _Mummy say?

Doctor Watson had come and gone, simply acknowledging his presence in the flat with a half grunt and a "please don't provoke Sherlock into destroying any more of the furniture". Mrs. Hudson had popped in to say hello which (though he never would admit it to anyone) he rather liked.

Finally his brother had arrived, bursting into the living room like a terrier. He bounded through the door yelling for John.

Mycroft turned. "He said he had told you this morning he was going out tonight. On a date with a woman apparently, engaging in whatever people do these days."

"What do you want?"

Mycroft suppressed a grin. Unfolding his arms he eyed his younger brother, skeletal towering figure with bouncing charcoal coloured curls. Sometimes, especially when he pouted, he looked just like he had when he was a teenager. Acted it too most of the time.

Sherlock Holmes never grew up. Mycroft was quite sure he did it on purpose.

But children, contraire to popular belief Mycroft was actually quite good with children. Sherlock had been an intelligent, questioning, awkward child but not a difficult one. Age thirteen he grew an attitude and that was when the problems began.

Mycroft did admit that his brother had grown into a remarkable man even if he hadn't grown up. _Maybe one day he'll be a good one. _The words echoed in his skull.

But the British Government was relying on his brother having that ridiculous pride and of course plain stubbornness.

"And that is why you must not, under any circumstances become involved with the case," he finished. "It isn't one you would be interested in anyway. Only one body apparently. But I need you to stay away from it. Leave it to the police. I mean it brother. I forbid you from coming anywhere near the investigation."

Sherlock stared at him. "_You _forbid me?" his back straightened. "_You_ the man who can barely control his diet yet alone run a country in a satisfactory manner forbids _me _to take a case that you trust the police with?"

Mycroft nodded. "I believe that you're involvement would simply...complicate matters. After all, you'd probably be more of a liability, a hindrance."

"Is that all?"

"I'll see myself out."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

'Delilah' looked up from her phone. Her carefully manicured nails skipped across the keys even as she made eye contact with her boss.

"Did you impress the importance of the case upon him Sir?" she asked.

Mycroft nodded. "I made it absolutely clear that under no circumstances was he to attempt to solve it for it's far too boring yet difficult for him. Of course it's not. But he doesn't know that."

'Delilah' chuckled softly. "Do you think it'll work?"

"I heard him shooting the wall as I left."

"I'll make sure the file is hackable and that there are a few people on the team handling it willing to take bribes or work with him. Any names spring to mind Sir?"

Mycroft did not need to think. "Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Done and dusted Sir."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Reverse psychology had worked when Sherlock refused to wear a coat in the coldest of winters as a child. It was easier then- Mycroft found telling him to go freeze to death so that he could have his room and inheritance was easier than telling him to put a coat on in case he froze to death.

The technique developed when Sherlock was a teenager and the problems began, Mycroft found that a lot of them only worked once '_I think you should set fire to the school, it will show your sudden (_and short lived) _love of anarchy' _and _'Don't listen to Father, dying your hair green is a good idea, everyone will take you seriously then'. _

Unfortunately it didn't work with drugs.

As an adult it reached peaks such as _'If you take this case and I find out I'll have you arrested'. _

But it still worked.

The genius detective still fell for it.

And when Mycroft explained it to John, he couldn't help but let his lips quirk into a small smile as the good doctor burst into laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes was 'dead'.

Funny old Molly Hooper was timid and mousy.

But Doctor Molly Hooper, pathologist extraordinaire was tired of being Sherlock Holmes's push around.

"Sherlock?" she called, her voice coming out squeakier than she intended.

He was laying flat out on an examination table 'thinking'. Who was the idiot that told him perhaps if he tried to think like the victim then this case that had got him so worked up would be easier? Molly was sure it was Donovan or Anderson or something.

The woman, whichever one that was. The one that had the affair with the other one.

Apparently she'd tried to be nice to him, so, Molly decided, the Detective Sergeant wasn't too cold hearted. Sherlock was obviously struggling on this case (meaning the Yard wouldn't ever solve it without him) and she (a woman who detested Sherlock more than most people) had actually tried to be helpful.

Sherlock had taken it literally.

The victim was dead. Therefore Molly had walked into her morgue (yes her morgue) and found Sherlock Holmes, lying unmoving on a stainless steel table.

Timid, mousy, funny Molly wasn't so timid and mousy and funny. She didn't drop her papers in shock or scream when as she neared him his eyes flashed open. (Though admittedly she had been going to check his pulse).

Instead she acted as if it was an entirely normal occurrence.

But something that ever so nice woman (the one with the lovely suits and the awful phone) had said last time they'd been in the same room. _He reacts well to reverse psychology. _

Molly was tired. She'd been on another unsuccessful date the previous evening and undoubtedly Sherlock would now tell her the gory details of it and why it went wrong from the colour of her jumper and the way she held her pen.

And timid, mousy, funny old Molly wasn't in the mood.

Especially not when she knew that within five minutes he would probably be requesting coffee or a body or her to run some test for him.

"Sherlock I have a new coffee machine, or new for here at least," she said (which was sort of true, it was a month old, and he'd probably deleted the fact). "I'll get the instruction book out later, wherever I've put it. Don't you try. It's as if they don't want us to drink the stuff!"

Sherlock didn't react. "I'm a dead body Molly."

"Oh, ok Sherlock," Molly replied. She set down her paperwork gently. "Well I have some work to do. So just carry on being dead quietly."

Half an hour later a sweating Sherlock (and a rather dented coffee machine that really had been new last month) produced a pot of strong pure heaven in liquid form.

Molly hoped the damage wasn't too permanent (Sherlock had 'borrowed' a scalpel, pliers and her clipboard to make the "bloody useless thing" work).

Sherlock Holmes drank his coffee in one gulp, burnt his tongue, swore rather uncharacteristically then returned to being dead.

Molly couldn't say she objected to the company. Sherlock was rather nice when he was quiet. He seemed to be sulking over his burnt tongue. Molly spoke to the other bodies as she worked; occasionally glancing at Sherlock to make sure he was still alright.

She sipped her steaming cup slowly, wincing at the strength Sherlock had managed to concoct and wondering exactly how much coffee and sugar he'd used. _As in would you like some coffee with your sugar? _

At one point Sherlock had requested that she drape the white sheet over him and she'd happily obliged.

But perhaps she should have warned people, for she heard the scream at about half past twelve, when someone entered the morgue looking for Sherlock at the exact moment that Sherlock decided to sit up beneath his shroud.

Molly span on her heel. "It's ok-" she put out a hand to comfort the shivering man. "Please, just breathe. Urm. He's not...it's Sherlock. Urm he wasn't dead to start with! He's oh please...urm-"

Sherlock pulled the cloth away from his face. His mouth turned upwards in a bemused smile. "Really John, I didn't know you could scream at such a high pitch."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes was a great man, and one day, he might even be a good one.

But Doctor Watson was a good man. He was a good soldier. A good doctor. He considered himself a good _human. _

Yet as he watched Anderson and Sherlock furiously digging and the various teams sieving through dirt he couldn't help but wince at the thought.

It had been such a simple idea. But it had all got out of hand.

Clara, with whom John insisted on keeping contact with, had been saying that she needed the garden dug over. She'd just moved to a new house with her sister and her sister's son and the garden was a disgrace. The sister was seven months pregnant and the son only two years old, so John had volunteered to come over but had known it would take a good week or so to sort.

He'd also known that asking Sherlock if he'd like to come along and help would be good for absolutely nothing.

So, the evening after the first day, while Lestrade was conducting a fake (partially real) drugs bust, he might have sort of let slip that he'd found something odd in Clara's garden.

Something that looked a lot like a human finger bone.

He knew for a fact that it was Anderson's week off. Yet the man had been shameless enough to turn up for the drugs bust. _So it's not really wasting police time. _

_Besides Anderson does enough of that himself, _thought John as he watched him dig, then scolded himself, Sherlock was rubbing off on him.

John knew he was partially to blame for the drugs bust, Sherlock had been so mopey and so painfully _sad _(bored he called it, sad John called it) that he'd been worried. But it wasn't enough to constitute a danger night. He'd told Lestrade that their common friend (child) needed a wakeup call, that he was worried, and suddenly the flat was being stormed by a team of volunteers that were definitely not the drug squad.

John had been careful to wait until the police had gone before mentioning the fictional finger bone. (Molly hadn't asked why he wanted a bone. He wasn't sure why she had one to hand. A finger yes. But not just the bone. She'd assumed he wanted it for Sherlock and had immediately fetched it).

On the second day John found Sherlock in Clara's garden (who he hadn't been told the address of) with a shovel. He yelled at John to make sure that Clara didn't leave the house, and not to call the idiots that were Scotland Yard until he'd found all the evidence he needed.

It all went down hill from there. Because there were no bodies to find. John told Sherlock this. Sherlock accused John of trying to protect his sister's ex lover and John told him there was no way she was a murderer. Sherlock told him he'd already deduced that and to shut up.

John knew that Sherlock hadn't been able to keep his big mouth shut and had probably boasted to Anderson (for there had been two drugs busts and Sherlock had been forced to return to the flat by John after _he _promised to stay at Clara's in case the 'hider of bodies' for Sherlock refused to call him murderer came back) about him being better at finding bodies than the forensic specialist.

Or something of that sort. John just knew it. Because when Sherlock was in one of _those _moods you did expect him to come out with "I'm more intelligent than you and I'm taller so hah di ha with knobs on".

Anderson was on his holiday. John knew this. He didn't realise the man would be so stubborn as to demand the location from John and turn up there with his group of techs. John was surprised to find there were no police officers there. Until he discovered that Anderson wanted to confirm it and not take the 'Freak''s word (for he didn't want to appear a fool, especially in front of the likes of Donovan).

If it wasn't so serious it would be hilarious.

Clara was besides herself in giggles. Ben, Hilary (Clara's sister)'s son clapped his hands and gurgled occasionally. John watched the workers assembled as they dug. He'd offered tea, sometimes they accepted it.

They seemed just as confused as he was and just as eager to find a body before Sherlock did. In fact, Sherlock and them seemed to be working in unison for once.

As John took another tray laden with mugs out he discovered from one blue covered woman that they weren't technically meant to be working this. John suddenly realised why he hadn't recognised any of the team Anderson had brought in. They were forensic students, because the 'team' was actually doing real police work, on real police time.

Or so John told himself. After all, better for the students to get some good life experience than sit around boozing (like he remembered doing quite a few times). Right?

Hundreds of justifications went through his mind.

And he had told them there were no bodies there. Several times.

That made them even more determined.

John was seriously considering phoning Lestrade.

Hilary looked worried. "And they all agreed to come help dig the garden?" she asked, cradling her enormous bump. "That's nice of them. But why...why are they sieving the dirt? And why are they wearing those suits like they were in the films?"

Clara grinned. "These are John's friends from the police force Hil. That man shouting at the man in the coat is Anderson, he and John are good friends and he just agreed to come help when he heard we needed it. And the man in the coat is Sherlock, you know, John's flatmate, the detective."

Hilary nodded. John had always liked Hilary (sometimes more than his own sister, and that hurt admitting it). But it was lucky that she was such a nice person because though her intelligence wasn't lacking her innocence to the world and its horrors was horrendous. That was so sad, for she was _genuinely _such a nice person (and that was what had led her to being dumped with a toddler and a baby on the way).

"Oh yes, Sherlock is a funny old sort, it was so nice of him to send that Christmas card, and the present for Ben," she smiled watching the man gesture madly as he spoke to (screamed at) Anderson.

_Yes, _thought John. _Anyone who reads my blog would have worked out that it was me who forced him to sign each card I wrote out for him to send and it was me who wouldn't let him send the boy a microscope or some eyeballs (because he'll grow into it and they'll decompose for when he's older). _Though in hindsight Ben, Hilary and Clara must have made a good impression on Sherlock if he actually wanted to send the child a gift.

"Oh look, he's helping that nice Anderson with his filter. Why did you say they were sieving again John?"

John looked up. Whatever Sherlock was doing it was not helping Anderson, more like trying to battle the damn sieve out of his hands, while he hung on for grim death.

_Good Gods she's a young Mrs Hudson. _She'd actually put Sherlock's coat and scarf in the wash last night (John had threatened to call the police if Sherlock didn't rest, Sherlock slept on the living room floor) and said she wasn't a house keeper but would do it this once seeing that Sherlock was being so helpful. She'd dried them before he got up as well (John and Clara had begged her not to rush around, so far gone, but no, she just wouldn't hear of it).

"It's to...fertilise the soil," John said meekly.

It was the fourth day since the job had begun and no bones or bodies had been found. The garden was more than dug over, great holes had been dug and dirt had been piled high on either side. Sherlock and Anderson had also dug up the stone path and one of the holes had gone deeper than five foot.

They'd brought in supports and the garden was no longer a garden, but one gaping hole. The neighbours were surely talking now. Tarpaulins had been raised so as not to contaminate any other evidence, or should there be rain, to damage the holes.

There were no weeds or plants at all left in the garden, and Sherlock said they should extend it to the neighbours garden (for if someone was to bury bodies, why not bury them elsewhere).

John was a good man. He knew it. But he didn't feel good now. Because his dear dear Holmes was trying to deduce from evidence that wasn't there. Because the finger bone hadn't interested him at all. If he had actually looked at it, he would have _known _(even though he declared he did not know but saw) that it had come from a Doctor Hooper who was also as innocent as the day was young.

But he hadn't known and he hadn't seen.

And now John watched him and Anderson start to work again, and realised that he'd have to stop them before they started digging up other people's gardens.

The matter was so serious, he knew he shouldn't laugh. Clara began to snigger. It was so contagious that John found a giggle welling up in his throat.

_Oh my dear, dear Sherlock, you're a prize one aren't you? _


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note 2: In case of confusion, John is staying with family when Sherlock and Lestrade solve a particularly challenging case. When you put weight and stress on hollow glass, its flexible, its bends. Think of this as Lestrade. Sherlock is solid glass. Caring doesn't help him save lives so he doesn't do it. But when you put enough weight and stress on solid glass it snaps. **_

_**In my mind I think the case had something that trigger an involuntary emotional response from Sherlock. There were bodies and there was a killer, as always. Maybe it involved neglect or abuse, assault or viciousness that even the great self proclaimmed Sociopath can't witness silently. **_

_**Sherlock breaks. Lestrade deals with the aftermath.**_

* * *

Greg Lestrade was _used _to his sleep being interrupted; being a Detective Inspector meant being on-call twenty four seven. It meant being on call twenty four seven three hundred and sixty five when you were the lucky DI who dealt with Sherlock Holmes.

But he'd been expecting the call for a while. Ever since Tuesday in fact, and the

"I'll be right over," he told Mrs. Hudson, sluggishness dropping from his voice.

He drove to Baker Street and arrived at just gone three. Mrs. Hudson greeted him at the door, face lined with weariness. The torturing of a violin was happening in the flat above.

"Been at it all night has he?"

"Yes Detective," she sighed. Her laughter lines, as she called them, seemed more like worry lines. Her lips were chapped and red, her eyes sunken deep into their sockets. "He was quiet for the first three nights, but he started playing yesterday."

Greg placed an arm on the woman's shoulder. "Is he-?"

She nodded. "I searched the flat and I couldn't find anything. John won't be back for another two weeks. Surely Mycroft would have noticed if he'd managed to somehow _buy_ any-"

He spared her from having to finish the sentence, for even though she'd been Sherlock's _Mother _for years she still had trouble with the concept of his self destructive behaviours. His _Mummy_ on the other hand seemed to care nothing for either of her sons despite the unrequited love they felt (and tried not to) towards her.

"Shooting the walls?"

"How do you-?" she shook her head. "I'm worried. He refuses to talk to his brother. Practically wept when I suggested calling him and begged me not to bother John. It's not normal. Even for Sherlock. I think he might have been drinking. I think he might," she placed a hand over her mouth, tears blossoming in her eyes.

Greg cursed internally. The terrible violin music had stopped. That was even more _not good. _"Right Mrs. Hudson. I think you should go back into your flat and make us all some tea. Lock the door and don't open it until I come down. Alright? Off you go."

He opened the door to 221B as quietly as possible.

"Drop dead and stay dead you miserable cow! I don't want tea!"

A cup hit the wall beside him. A saucer followed. Both shattered, one a second after the first. The fragments mixing as they fell. Cold tea slithered down the wall.

Greg had seen Sherlock like this before. He also knew that Sherlock Holmes had _very _good aim even if he was spinning to launch Mrs. Hudson's finest china at someone he believed to be her. Meaning he didn't _really _mean to hurt her. _I'm no Holmes but I'm no idiot. _The missile attack was a warning.

"Fuck off Lestrade!"

"Sherlock, Mrs Hudson is very worried," he approached the man slowly. "Now so am I. Sherlock, have you taken anything?"

Sherlock looked up, arching his back and flexing his shoulders. "Really? So concerned are you Detective Inspector? So very, very concerned. Overuse of my name, trying to initiate some sort of emotional response are we? You're not a psychiatrist Lestrade stop trying to use psychological tricks on me."

Greg nodded. "Yeah. Stop trying to deflect. Sherlock, I _need _to know. Have you taken anything?"

"Enough shit to last me a lifetime!" he snapped turning away. Several books hit the floor as he ran his hand along the bookshelf. The sofa had already been upturned, Lestrade was relieved nothing had happened to the violin yet. When something happened to the violin then things were really bad. It lay undamaged on the windowsill.

"I'm not like you. So please Sherlock, have you taken anything?"

The younger man was shaking and then his breath hitched. He glanced upwards, fist balling, unclenching. In the half light Greg saw him blinking madly, slowly he flicked on the lights. The flat was even more of a mess now that the only light source wasn't the dim glow of outside streetlamps. His eyes strayed to the bottle in his left hand.

Shattered glass was all over part of the floor, and from the corner of his eye he saw the kitchen looked worse than usual. Lab gear had been destroyed madly. It was as if a wild animal had been let lose there.

There was no slur in Sherlock's words, but he was ever so slightly slower than usual. He was just that little bit unsteady. The genius didn't even get drunk like the average person. In his days he'd grown a rather high tolerance to cocaine. Alcohol too.

Greg had found him once, vomiting the content of his stomach, wasn't a lot. Half a bottle of vodka and a coffee. He'd been snorting lines that night. Couldn't get his hands on a needle that night, settled for lines. Not that the brilliant _brilliant _man had cared about whether the needles were clean or not. That night needles weren't available. That night line after line would do.

Sherlock whimpered, his shoulders shook and his chest shuddered. Before Greg knew it the detective was sobbing soundlessly, one hand over his mouth, eyes shut. Then he took another swig, knocking back a mouthful of vodka and another.

It wasn't a marked bottle; obviously Sherlock was getting drunk, not doing it for the thrills. It was own brand. Smelt like paint stripper. Sherlock wasn't looking for answers at the bottom of the bottle, he was looking for oblivion.

Taking hold of Sherlock Greg slowly pried the bottle from his fingers. For once Sherlock didn't fight him even letting him awkwardly put his arms around his slim being. Greg understood. He _understood. _

He was there on the case. He saw. He knew. Just like Sherlock did. He fucking _understood._

Replacing cocaine with nicotine, nicotine with alcohol when it stops working.

"It's alright Sherlock. It's alright."

Slowly Sherlock slid down to the floor and Greg went with him. He stroked the dark curls, making sure that Sherlock's long limbs didn't tangle with the broken glass and wood on the floor. Carefully he leant Sherlock's back against the wall, supporting his head as he did.

"You're hand's bleeding Sherlock," Greg informed him quietly.

It was bad when it wasn't time for deductions or for logic. It was _bad _when Sherlock didn't tell him not to state the obvious. It was bad when Sherlock's mood dropped from angry to _nothing _within seconds. It was _bad _when he wasn't bombarded with loving insults.

"Mrs. Hudson is worried Sherlock, she thinks you're going to hurt yourself. Now I trust you haven't taken anything, but you've been drinking quite a bit on an empty stomach, when did you last sleep?"

Using his knees instead of the strength of his back he turned the sofa upright with a heavy thud. At least he'd warned Mrs. Hudson not to come up until he told her, or she would be up the stairs in a shot, broom in hand as a defensive weapon for all the good it would do her. Elderly perhaps, slightly deaf even (it helped with Sherlock being her tenant) but still sharp.

"John still keeps a first aid kit doesn't he?"

Greg heard the shatter of the vodka bottle, spilling the remains over whatever it had been broken against. It took a lot of force to break a bottle intentionally. They seemed to break accidentally very easily, cracking and suddenly the most hazardous thing in the world. But intentionally was another matter. It took effort to make it into a weapon.

Part of his mind said it was an accident, Sherlock had reached for it, Sherlock had knocked it. But the other part of his mind, the part that was constantly a police officer, the part that told him when to duck, when to run, the part that kept him alive, instinct, told him that the smash was anything but accidental.

The bottle's broken but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice. Slamming his head backwards against the wall he slams his wrists down to. The neck of the broken bottle in one and nothing in the other.

Greg's stomach squirms. "Sherlock," he shakes his wrists, the bottle begins to slip but Sherlock's fingers tighten around it. His own, bigger, stronger hands close around the bottle, ignoring the angry red marks that well on his fingers. He sent the bottle flying across the room.

"Stop it Sherlock," he ordered. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock moved like a wild beast, thrashing and shaking and lashing out. He grabbed hold of Greg's hair yanking and biting and scratching. Fighting for no reason at all.

"Sherlock," he implored voice quiet and shaky.

Alcohol, malnutrition and lack of sleep did nothing for his fighting skills. His blows didn't land and despite thrashing like a fish on land he could not win. Finally he became limp.

"Not today Sherlock," whispered Greg. "Not today."

His chest was tight, his mind spinning. He stared blankly at (his friend? colleague? consulting detective? surrogate son?) Sherlock.

"Let's get you sorted out, ok?" Greg manoeuvred Sherlock onto the sofa simply for the reason that it was soft and cushioned and easier to work from. He felt the man's chest rising and falling, hitched breaths.

Gregory Lestrade was no doctor, but he was a policeman. He cleaned the superficial wounds and judged the rest. He asked again if Sherlock had taken anything and _knew _that it was too late if he had. He washed the man's face and sat him up on the sofa. He seemed to have dozed off while Greg dealt with the first aid, at least that's what it seemed like.

"I'm going to fetch Mrs. Hudson, and we're going to drink tea, and then me and you are both going to sleep," explained Greg. "And I'm not going to tell her all of it, and I'm not going to tell John or Mycroft. Though he probably knows."

Blearily Sherlock glared at him.

"Caring isn't an advantage Sherlock, I know you think that, and you're right. But our problem is that we care too much. And just because you choose not to feel it, doesn't mean you don't do it."

Wiping an eye with an arm Sherlock muffled a sob. "I don't need your help Lestrade. I don't want you here Lestrade. I don't care. Caring will not help."

Greg nodded. "I know. But I'm hurting too Sherlock. And it hurts me less to hurt with you. I can't do it alone Sherlock. I know you don't need my help, but I need mine."

It wasn't psychology, or headology, not really. Greg Lestrade didn't _have _to use reverse psychology with Sherlock Holmes. He never did. Part of it was the truth but most of it was blatant lies. Both of them knew it. The genius and the average minded man. Both of them fucking knew it.

But neither of them cared.

* * *

_**Author's Note: Oooh, slightly more angsty than usual. Maybe a little thank you to everyone, and that means everyone, who's reviewed, who's favourited, and who's alerted. I don't usually get to do these thank you notes, because usually I don't get such a brilliant response.**_

_**I don't have an excuse for such a long time between updating this (updating anything for that matter). I am sporting a rather nice black eye (martial arts) but that hasn't affected my ability to type (but I did try to convince the co-inhabitants of my home that I couldn't possibly do any housework).**_

_**Thanks again, hope you're enjoying x**_


	5. Chapter 5

"I can smell _dog_ Molly! _Dog!"_

"No," Molly shook her head desperately.

"There's a dog in here Molly!"

Molly sighed. "They were going to shoot her!"

Sherlock tore into the kitchen and bounded around the cabinet corners until he came across a basket tucked in-between the back door, wall and the washing machine.

"We already _children _Molly! Why would we _need _a dog?"

Molly sighed.

Said children came tearing into the kitchen and bounded to a stop beside him. "1, 2, 3, ." said Sherlock triumphantly.

Molly rolled her eyes. "They have names Sherlock," she snapped. "Greg, Liam and Sally. Oh and the dog's called Sam."

"Sam's a masculine name for a bitch."

"_Sherlock_!"

Liam and Sally giggled.

Sherlock turned. "It's the correct _terminology!"_

Molly chuckled wiping her brow. Greg stood beside her shyly and flinched as Sam nipped at him. She scolded the puppy and stroked her fur, taking the boy's hand and letting him do so too.

She and Sherlock didn't talk about the miscarriages. They didn't talk about their stillborn son John. Molly had never seen Sherlock so quiet and subdued as when the doctor's explained in less simple terms that her body just could not carry a child full term and tried to kill the child like it would a foreign creature.

They didn't talk about the fact that Sherlock's sperm simply weren't...lively enough even should they consider a surrogate mother.

They didn't talk about a lot of things.

Greg Hamish Holmes had been fostered when he was just a week old and they adopted him two years later. Molly had seen Sherlock cry a total of three times in his life previously (after his own funeral, after John and when they found out children weren't going to happen), but he cried when it was agreed that they could become foster parents. He held off until they got home but Molly knew he shed a lonely tear as they hugged one another in ecstacy.

_There were so many times he should have died, he didn't deserve all the oppertunities he was given. But Molly did. Molly deserved it all. Sherlock would have done anything to give her what she wanted. He even went to Mycroft to secure approval of their desire to become foster parents. Strangely enough they didn't need it, despite his hazardous life choices. _

When he got a frantic phone call in the middle of a case that sent him racing away he returned with the news that a friend of his was pregnant, Molly had wanted to slap him. But when he'd explained that she had no desire to keep the baby and only religious belief had stopped any thoughts of terminating the pregnancy.

The child was determined to be at risk before it was even born. John had taken Sherlock aside and warned him that the child might not even survive. After all, the mother was a heroin addict. Greg Lestrade had taken Sherlock aside and reminded him carefully to think of the effects of such a drug on an unborn child (though Alice swore she hadn't used since she found out).

They'd known the risks. But they'd seen the beautiful baby boy and fallen in love.

Alice Green had handed him over to social services without blinking an eyelid yet Molly _saw _that look in her eyes. She felt the pain and she'd hugged the woman. _Christ _she'd hugged the woman. Whispering her thanks.

_"Look after him. You'll give him a good life. I can't give him that. Just...if he asks...don't tell him."_

Don't tell him his biological Mother's a whore. Don't tell him that the man he thinks of as Dad tried damn hard to get her off the drugs along with tens if not hundreds of his homeless network. Don't tell him she was a junkie. Don't tell him she gave him up without a fight.

_Don't tell him she was raped, don't tell him she couldn't face another day, don't tell him-_

Alice Green overdosed two days later.

Molly had cried at the funeral. Greg and Sherlock had not.

They had started to realise that he wasn't _normal _at six months old. Things that were worked out later made sense of his lack of development earlier. At nine months he made no attempt to sit up or move. By a year old they were very concerned. By eighteen months it was obvious.

Yet apparently it wasn't because of his mother's vices, he hadn't been born addicted to the stuff, and despite a week or two of intensive care immediately after his birth no concerns were raised immediately.

Autism was a suggestion, as was putocki lupski syndrome. Down syndrome was suggested and then dismissed. Countless names were suggested that Molly immediately forgot after it was confirmed that he didn't 'have' it.

At twenty four months old they adopted him.

Social workers had suggested a residential care home. Molly had been petrified that her husband would suggest it too. So very, very petrified.

He was cold. Mechanical even. She chose to subject herself to him because she _knew _that he could be kind, considerate, affectionate, everything in his own true way. But subjecting such a vulnerable child to that?

If Greg was his own flesh and blood she thought it might be different. But could he as a father cope with knowing that his son would never grow up? Would never be able to follow in his footsteps or go dashing around crime scenes with him, chasing criminals and deducing so brilliantly?

Could she for that matter? Knowing that the beautiful, beautiful boy would outlive her, and who would love him then?

But the prospect of losing _their _son was a hideous one. They loved him and his sisters equally. Sally had been fostered at eight years old as an emergency placement (they'd been doing emergency placements for a while) and had been adopted a year later. Her name had been Josephine originally but she'd announced she wanted to change it, and Molly could understand why, so that was what they'd done.

They'd given her book after book of names so that she could choose and Molly had told Sherlock off for his scepticism. But Sally had been the name she wanted. Because ever since Sherlock took her and Liam to a crime scene when he was meant to be bringing them straight home she'd fallen in love with one Detective Inspector Sally Donovan.

Because ever since their 'Grandad' Lestrade had retired she was one of the few on the force who was willing to work with him.

Liam had been fostered at six and adopted at nine. He was the same age as Sally, three months older though, and reminded them constantly of that difference. Even at twelve Molly still saw the scared little boy he'd once been.

They _still _did emergency fostering, but only temporary.

"We are not keeping her," growled Sherlock.

Sam barked.

Molly sighed again. "Sherlock she's hopeless. She's only little but they say they won't be able to train her to be a sheepdog. She doesn't chase sheep and she doesn't behave how a sheepdog should. They were going to shoot her!"

Greg laughed as the dog licked him. He signed 'work' at his Father.

Sherlock nodded. "It was good Greg. And I hear you're working very hard in the project? Sorting out old clothes for charity shops today?"

Molly had to keep back a smile. She knew Sherlock already knew every item of their children's day. Yet he still asked and prompted. _Only because I've trained him. _

"You two take Sam and Greg into the garden. Tell her off if she bites."

Greg lingered, clutching her hand. Molly shook her head. "I need to have a little chat with Daddy."

"Mumum," he whined. He pointed at Sherlock and signed dog. "Dada?"

"That's what Mummy needs to talk about," she gently pushed. Shutting the door as he followed his siblings she turned on Sherlock. "How was work? You're home early."

"How was yours?" he snapped.

She shrugged. "Only a few bodies. Morgue was quite quiet today. Be a bit odd if it weren't though."

"Don't joke Molly," he frowned. "Who's going to look after her when you're at work?"

Molly slowly massaged his shoulders as he sat. The argument was already won. "Well after you drop off Liam and Sally at school, or they catch the bus together, I'll drop off Greg at the project and take her with me for the walk. Then I'll put her harness on her and she can have free roam of the garden."

"What if she digs up Toby? I told you we should have preserved his body."

Molly gasped. "You're an idiot. And don't you try to make me feel guilty. Toby was an old cat and I made you bury him because the kids are not learning it's appropriate to cut up dead pets. Besides, the neighbours already think you're a serial killer. Don't you dare bring back another body."

"It was in the name of science. You cut up bodies for a living."

"Yes," she said slowly as if talking to a toddler. "But they don't need to know that. And that's not the point. Greg and me'll walk her when I get home from work. You can walk her when you're not busy."

Sherlock rolled _his _eyes. "I'm taking Greg to New Scotland Yard on Monday."

Molly paused as she made her way towards the washing up. "Are you sure?"

"He knows Donovan, you said he needed to get used to new people. He's nineteen Molly, you can't mollycoddle him forever. Besides, he knows Mummy cuts up dead bodies."

"Ok. No crime scenes though!"

She heard Liam calling before she saw Sally at the doorway. Greg had fallen over and scraped his knee and was wailing terribly. The dog too had started crying and was cowering behind the washing line's pole.

Sherlock was out the door in a shot, beside their son, kneeling on the damp grass in his _new _suit.

She remembered explaining to Liam and Sally (it hadn't ever bothered Greg) exactly why Daddy sometimes sat on the sofa or kitchen table, or stairs, for hours on end without moving or answering them.

"_Daddy's special. He's very very clever but that cleverness fills up all of his head. He puts it all in his Mind Palace. Sometimes he has to look for the answers and it takes him such a long time to find them in all the different rooms that he needs to concentrate. He's still in there somewhere, looking for them. When he finds them he'll come back to us._"

The deletion process had been harder to explain. But at least after she explained why birthdays were important he recognised it and agreed. But names of teachers, curfews, why Greg wasn't allowed e-numbers, all of them went out the window.

Molly found it unnerving sometimes to find Sherlock in his mind palace with Greg cuddled up beside him. Both laying there in silence for hour upon hour until finally he blinked and made some announcement. Then he'd kiss Greg and hug the other two if they were near (despite their protests) and finally he'd phone Aunty Sally and kiss Mummy in the kitchen until she cried with laughter.

She watched the children and Sam playing outside. Sherlock leapt about madly and allowed the creature to bite his scarf. Molly smiled proudly as Sally scolded Sam and explained to her Father that she needed to be taught at a young age so that she wouldn't do it when she was older.

Molly tutted at Sherlock's "obviously" response.

Later that evening as Sam made a few whining noises in her basket from the confinements of the playpen Molly turned to face Sherlock.

"Mycroft and Greg are coming for dinner tomorrow."

"I'm busy."

"Greg still finds it funny that the kids call him Grandad. He's annoyed that you started it, you didn't need to tell them that he was a father to you."

"You told me to be over emotional."

She snuggled into his chest. "I know. They need that sometimes. Bit creepy if you overanalyze it. He's dating your brother."

"I love you Molly."

She curled into him. "They're arriving at six."

Molly thought that the phone had gone and she hadn't heard it when she found Sherlock missing from her bed at six am when her alarm blared. She showered and dressed but as she passed Greg and Liam's room to find Greg missing from his bed she panicked slightly.

Perhaps he'd had a nightmare and Sherlock had gone to comfort him. Hopefully they'd be in the kitchen or Sherlock being supposedly the responsible adult would have thought to have left a note regarding their whereabouts.

In the kitchen, lying on the floor beside the playpen, was Sherlock _bloody _Holmes. Greg stood watching him, absently sucking his thumb.

"Dada?" he asked.

Molly laughed softly.

Sherlock stirred. "She was crying. I took her out. We can take her to the vets this afternoon."

"Right," Molly raised her eyebrows. She turned towards Greg. "Drink?" she signed as she spoke. "Orange? We'll have to introduce Uncle John to Sam. Last time he had anything to do with Daddy and a doggie, naughty Daddy drugged him."

Greg laughed. "Dada?"

Molly nodded. "I know! Naughty Daddy. He's a good Daddy really though isn't he?"

"Yeah!" Greg agreed happily.

Sherlock stood haughtily brushing himself off as Sam rolled over. "She was crying and I couldn't sleep," he told no one but himself.

"Come here you big softy," she summoned, kissing him on the lips. Her phone buzzed in her jean pocket. _You've trained him well. MH. _"Greg," she called. "Can you close the blind?" she stared directly at the security camera that was definitely turning towards them. "You're going to have to search the house for bugs Sherlock. And cameras. It seems that Mycroft's been at it again."

Greg padded towards the door and Molly heard him heading upstairs. The sound of a jigsaw being poured onto a wooden floor echoed from above.

Sherlock made to follow him.

"Don't mollycoddle," she reminded. She reached up, putting her arms around his neck. He lowered his head and their lips touched briefly. Her phone buzzed again.

_In the words of Liam and Sally: Vom. MH_.

"Your brother's a perv," she whispered.

Sherlock laughed scooping her up into his arms. "Let him watch."

She shoved him away. "The kids have to get ready for school! Greg has to get ready for his scheme."

"It's Saturday," whispered Sherlock. "And it's the 22nd. Training day remember?"

"No scheme, no school, I fed four earlier and took her out. The jigsaw will last at least an hour because that's his Beethoven CD I hear playing. Liam and Sally won't be up for another hour or two."

"Your _brother's _watching!" protested Molly as Sherlock cleared the kitchen table. "And her name is Sam. We can't in front of her!"

"Then there'll be some interesting conversation tonight," murmured Sherlock in her ear.

Laughing hysterically as she clambered onto the kitchen table and they began to strip like love sick teenagers Molly glanced slightly at Sam. She had looked up then turned away as if to remark on what strange creatures the humans were.

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Holmes made love on the kitchen table like there was no tomorrow. Perhaps there was. Perhaps there wasn't. Molly couldn't care less. Because everything was perfect.


End file.
